FRANKLIN CANYON
Below Horseshoe Bend were several miles of class II-III. I noticed about four other sizeable campsites including a Forest Service campground for hikers complete with firepit and picnic tables up the bank on river left. At mile 14.5, Onion Valley Creek entered on the left, adding a bit more water to our liquid roller-coaster ride. Also, the Pacific Crest Trail footbridge crossed overhead at this point, one of the few external access points to the river. It was a huge monstrosity that looked like someone could drive a car over. The bridge seemed almost out of place to me. In our wilderness of solitude it was an unwelcommed trace of civilization. To me, it seemed a little excessive for Pacific Crest hikers. It was the opposite of a flimsy rope bridge that one might expect to find spanning a river in Nepal. A disgruntled hiker had written “Why This?” on the upstream side of an iron I-beam. Nevertheless, it was the obvious landmark we were looking for that would alert us to the entrance of Franklin Canyon. Most of the class V+ drops were below this point in Franklin Canyon, a metamorphic bedrock canyon with extremely steep rapids, including 12’ Franklin Falls.
Soon the geology tightened up and the river narrowed abruptly. Franklin Canyon was a long stretch of turbulent class IV and V rapids with a gradient of over 100 feet per mile. There was also at least one big portage that we were on the lookout for at mile 15. When we paddled up to the first really big rapid, all we could see was a jumble of boulders below a horizon line with mist and spray spewing up from below. We got out on river left to scout and determined that it must be Hole in the Box rapid. It had a narrow flume of water that dropped 12 feet into a big hole studded with boulders. It didn’t take us long to decide to walk around this one. Clamoring over the uneven rocks, while at the same time dragging our loaded kayaks, was a chore. At some points we had to lower our boats down into a rocky crevasse, climb down in, and heave the heavy boats up and out the other side. We quickly learned that portaging was much more work than running the rapids. Positioning our boats on the rocky left bank below the falls, we seal-launched back into the current.
Then, we immediately encountered another horizon line downstream. We got out on the left side again to scout. Here the river split around a bedrock island, with the left side pounding down a narrow chute. We ran the right side. Very busy water continued downstream.
At mile 15.5 Dogwood Creek entered on the left high above the water’s edge. It was a beautiful waterfall that plunged down a thousand feet over smooth, glistening granite. Green moss studded the watery braid throughout. The cascade reminded me of scenes one might expect to see in Yosemite National Park. Around mile 18 we rounded a corner where the river widened out for a spell. In the center of the river a house-sized rock extended up and out of the water. On top of this rock, about 15-20 feet above the water, was a lone dog. The dog started barking insatiably once he saw us. At first I was perplexed. I thought, “How did a dog get all the way down here?” The sound of the bark wasn’t one of fright or the sound one might expect from a dog in a life-or-death situation. Rather, it was an urgent bark of helplessness; like the dog was trying to warn its owner of approaching people, but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come off it’s high perch.
On the other side of the river, across from the rock, we came upon a man standing knee deep in the water. He appeared to be a rugged frontier type with a bushy gray beard. He was wearing a neoprene suit and held an iron bar in one hand and an inner tube in the other. He had other tools on the side of the river that were within easy reaching distance. I saw a pickaxe, sifting pan and other hand tools. We paddled into the eddy to talk. He spoke as though he was pleased to see us; as if he hadn’t spoken another soul for many days. He explained to us that he had spent several days working a small vein of rock in the riverbed a couple feet under the water. He tied off the inner tube to the shore and used it to float him above his work area. He told us that he had extracted several pounds of gold out of this river over the years. To me, it seemed like a very cold and hard day at the office.
We paddled up to yet another horizon line with the sound of thundering water below. We scouted river left. There was a strand of rock in the middle of the river as the water flowed around it and down over an 8-10 foot vertical drop. The falling water created two river-wide holes, on either side of the rock strand, extending out to the riverbanks on both sides. Upon initial inspection, I thought the line would be to gain enough speed to launch over the lip of the falls on the left side, and hopefully, have enough momentum to clear the hole below. With further inspection we noticed rebar sticking out slightly under the water’s surface at the top lip of the drop. This was, in fact, an old dam build into the rapid that looked as if it had crumbled away over the years or, perhaps, was only partly constructed long ago by the dam builders. This man-made hazard seemed worthy of mention and I was surprised and alarmed not to have read about it in any guidebook. It was late afternoon, around 4 pm or so. This time of day was know as the “witching hour,” a time of day where mistakes are more likely to happen due to people’s fatigue or inattentiveness. Ben expressed no desire to run a big hole at this time. Chad looked as if he still hadn’t ruled out the option of running the right side of the rock strand. When I pointed out the rebar and the fact that we didn’t know how much more rip-wrap could be under the water in the landing zone, we all shouldered our boats for the portage.
Day two was a long day. It was physically as well as mentally demanding. We had paddled a little over 12 miles and it took us almost 10 hours. The numerous scouts and the occasional portage became quite time consuming. Rarely is my mind so clear and focused than when I am paddling. Around each new bend, I was constantly on the lookout for any potential hazards as well as water features that would offer up a potential fun play spot. It became a Zen-like state of mind for me. However, maintaining such a focused and alert mental condition began to take a toll on my endurance. Near mile 22 we looked for the next and last footbridge spanning the river. It marked our camp for the night.
Hartman’s Bar had a nice white sandy speckled beach with polished granite rocks for us to dry out our gear on. It was a large expansive beach, suitable for a large number of people, with scenic views consistent with previous beaches we had seen along the way. As I extrapolated myself from my kayak, I noticed through the clear water a red salamander slowly crawling over the sand. I reached my hand under the surface of the water to pick him up. The salamander showed no signs of excitement and I could easily have snatched up a new friend. However, I thought twice about it and decided to let him be. Traces of previous use were found up among the trees. Off the beach, the camp looked fairly well lived in; there was an old wooden bench, discarded rations containers and a matted down sleeping area. Perhaps an old-timey gold miner had holed up here?
I woke up late the next morning, trying to get as much sleep as possible. I lay on top of my sleeping bag for a while contemplating my last day on this river. We ate a lazy breakfast and sipped hot drinks, enjoying the last few moments of our camp. Now, all our rations were gone except the peanut butter at a bit of gorp. As our breakfast settled, we eventually grew motivated and began the morning ritual of loading our boats. When I pushed out into the eddy, Ben was already surfing a wave downstream. Next, Chad and I caught the wave a had a good morning surf. It was a better wake-me-up than coffee. “Next stop, Devil’s Canyon!”
Below Horseshoe Bend were several miles of class II-III. I noticed about four other sizeable campsites including a Forest Service campground for hikers complete with firepit and picnic tables up the bank on river left. At mile 14.5, Onion Valley Creek entered on the left, adding a bit more water to our liquid roller-coaster ride. Also, the Pacific Crest Trail footbridge crossed overhead at this point, one of the few external access points to the river. It was a huge monstrosity that looked like someone could drive a car over. The bridge seemed almost out of place to me. In our wilderness of solitude it was an unwelcommed trace of civilization. To me, it seemed a little excessive for Pacific Crest hikers. It was the opposite of a flimsy rope bridge that one might expect to find spanning a river in Nepal. A disgruntled hiker had written “Why This?” on the upstream side of an iron I-beam. Nevertheless, it was the obvious landmark we were looking for that would alert us to the entrance of Franklin Canyon. Most of the class V+ drops were below this point in Franklin Canyon, a metamorphic bedrock canyon with extremely steep rapids, including 12’ Franklin Falls.
Soon the geology tightened up and the river narrowed abruptly. Franklin Canyon was a long stretch of turbulent class IV and V rapids with a gradient of over 100 feet per mile. There was also at least one big portage that we were on the lookout for at mile 15. When we paddled up to the first really big rapid, all we could see was a jumble of boulders below a horizon line with mist and spray spewing up from below. We got out on river left to scout and determined that it must be Hole in the Box rapid. It had a narrow flume of water that dropped 12 feet into a big hole studded with boulders. It didn’t take us long to decide to walk around this one. Clamoring over the uneven rocks, while at the same time dragging our loaded kayaks, was a chore. At some points we had to lower our boats down into a rocky crevasse, climb down in, and heave the heavy boats up and out the other side. We quickly learned that portaging was much more work than running the rapids. Positioning our boats on the rocky left bank below the falls, we seal-launched back into the current.
Then, we immediately encountered another horizon line downstream. We got out on the left side again to scout. Here the river split around a bedrock island, with the left side pounding down a narrow chute. We ran the right side. Very busy water continued downstream.
At mile 15.5 Dogwood Creek entered on the left high above the water’s edge. It was a beautiful waterfall that plunged down a thousand feet over smooth, glistening granite. Green moss studded the watery braid throughout. The cascade reminded me of scenes one might expect to see in Yosemite National Park. Around mile 18 we rounded a corner where the river widened out for a spell. In the center of the river a house-sized rock extended up and out of the water. On top of this rock, about 15-20 feet above the water, was a lone dog. The dog started barking insatiably once he saw us. At first I was perplexed. I thought, “How did a dog get all the way down here?” The sound of the bark wasn’t one of fright or the sound one might expect from a dog in a life-or-death situation. Rather, it was an urgent bark of helplessness; like the dog was trying to warn its owner of approaching people, but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come off it’s high perch.
On the other side of the river, across from the rock, we came upon a man standing knee deep in the water. He appeared to be a rugged frontier type with a bushy gray beard. He was wearing a neoprene suit and held an iron bar in one hand and an inner tube in the other. He had other tools on the side of the river that were within easy reaching distance. I saw a pickaxe, sifting pan and other hand tools. We paddled into the eddy to talk. He spoke as though he was pleased to see us; as if he hadn’t spoken another soul for many days. He explained to us that he had spent several days working a small vein of rock in the riverbed a couple feet under the water. He tied off the inner tube to the shore and used it to float him above his work area. He told us that he had extracted several pounds of gold out of this river over the years. To me, it seemed like a very cold and hard day at the office.
We paddled up to yet another horizon line with the sound of thundering water below. We scouted river left. There was a strand of rock in the middle of the river as the water flowed around it and down over an 8-10 foot vertical drop. The falling water created two river-wide holes, on either side of the rock strand, extending out to the riverbanks on both sides. Upon initial inspection, I thought the line would be to gain enough speed to launch over the lip of the falls on the left side, and hopefully, have enough momentum to clear the hole below. With further inspection we noticed rebar sticking out slightly under the water’s surface at the top lip of the drop. This was, in fact, an old dam build into the rapid that looked as if it had crumbled away over the years or, perhaps, was only partly constructed long ago by the dam builders. This man-made hazard seemed worthy of mention and I was surprised and alarmed not to have read about it in any guidebook. It was late afternoon, around 4 pm or so. This time of day was know as the “witching hour,” a time of day where mistakes are more likely to happen due to people’s fatigue or inattentiveness. Ben expressed no desire to run a big hole at this time. Chad looked as if he still hadn’t ruled out the option of running the right side of the rock strand. When I pointed out the rebar and the fact that we didn’t know how much more rip-wrap could be under the water in the landing zone, we all shouldered our boats for the portage.
Day two was a long day. It was physically as well as mentally demanding. We had paddled a little over 12 miles and it took us almost 10 hours. The numerous scouts and the occasional portage became quite time consuming. Rarely is my mind so clear and focused than when I am paddling. Around each new bend, I was constantly on the lookout for any potential hazards as well as water features that would offer up a potential fun play spot. It became a Zen-like state of mind for me. However, maintaining such a focused and alert mental condition began to take a toll on my endurance. Near mile 22 we looked for the next and last footbridge spanning the river. It marked our camp for the night.
Hartman’s Bar had a nice white sandy speckled beach with polished granite rocks for us to dry out our gear on. It was a large expansive beach, suitable for a large number of people, with scenic views consistent with previous beaches we had seen along the way. As I extrapolated myself from my kayak, I noticed through the clear water a red salamander slowly crawling over the sand. I reached my hand under the surface of the water to pick him up. The salamander showed no signs of excitement and I could easily have snatched up a new friend. However, I thought twice about it and decided to let him be. Traces of previous use were found up among the trees. Off the beach, the camp looked fairly well lived in; there was an old wooden bench, discarded rations containers and a matted down sleeping area. Perhaps an old-timey gold miner had holed up here?
I woke up late the next morning, trying to get as much sleep as possible. I lay on top of my sleeping bag for a while contemplating my last day on this river. We ate a lazy breakfast and sipped hot drinks, enjoying the last few moments of our camp. Now, all our rations were gone except the peanut butter at a bit of gorp. As our breakfast settled, we eventually grew motivated and began the morning ritual of loading our boats. When I pushed out into the eddy, Ben was already surfing a wave downstream. Next, Chad and I caught the wave a had a good morning surf. It was a better wake-me-up than coffee. “Next stop, Devil’s Canyon!”
Random kayak video of Brad:
Tieton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No
Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40
Tieton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No
Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40
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